Pascha
by cosmic12
Summary: Landa's einsatzgruppe intrudes on a French family. My first fanfic, be kind! Not happy.
1. Chapter 1

Marie sat up straight in bed. She woke at the same time every day, 5am. She didn't need the alarm clock, unlike Clotilde. For her life ran like clockwork – she got up, got dressed, went to mass, came back, ate, and went to school, came back, studied, went to mass and then had supper, read and went to bed. At the weekend she did work on the farm – and studied. She didn't need anything else; for her life was simple, and there was only one goal. And it didn't pertain to life on earth.

Clotilde was a different story altogether. While Marie walked rigidly on the straight and narrow path, she veered to the left and right, but always made her way forward in the end.

Marie climbed out of bed and opened the wardrobe. With regards dress sense she was as much a Protestant as the British Puritans of old. Her dresses were almost uniformly black, with a red one to wear on feast days. But this was what she wanted; in her mind it was preparation for how her life would ultimately be fulfilled - in the convent.

She brushed her hair, put on a hairband, lifted her missal and rosary beads from the bedside table and descended the staircase to the kitchen. As it was summer it was light outside; she could still hear birdsong. She took the key from the hook on the wall and left the house. It was an old house – or so she had been told. Her parents, teachers, had inherited it from her paternal grandparents. There was a library on the first floor, which Marie wholeheartedly disapproved of. Books such as _Justine _and _Les Liasons Dangereuses, _which lurked unread for decades on the shelves did nothing but offend her Christian sensibilities. The décor hadn't been updated in that long either – the fabrics on the furniture was fading, and the woodwork was beginning to rot with the damp. The place had an aura of forgotten grandeur. No doubt in the past it was a great house – ten bedrooms; three bathrooms with running water – Marie was certainly a member of the bourgeois. However her parents had allowed the place to fall into disrepair. It seemed to her that they harboured a sense of distaste for the house's aristocratic past – it didn't fit with the impression they tried to give their friends – intellectuals; _Communists. _

As she closed the kitchen door into yard behind her, she saw in the distance a car and several trucks at the bottom of the field which separated her house from the road. There was a path which ran the length of it; once she had traversed the field it was a short walk down the road to the town of B-, in which she attended church and school. As she walked down the path she could see two men talking. Coming closer their features came into sharp relief. Both were wearing black trenchcoats – and grey caps, each with a skull in the centre. They were speaking in German. _Nazis_ – the word sunk into her like a blade. A feeling of dread and foreboding was beginning to rise inside her, _why were they here, outside our house? What did they want? _A memory of her parents discussing Marx came to her suddenly, and a wave of nausea washed over her. _Had they come for her parents? _

They blocked her exit from the field. There was only one gate, and they stood in front of it. When she was a few feet away from them both turned quickly and stared at her. She froze, and became aware that she was shaking.

"Excusez-moi, Messieurs-" she began, but her voice failed her. She could feel her stomach sinking, a feeling of fear and dread overcoming her.

The man on the left raised his eyebrow, and smiled. He was older that the other soldier; perhaps forty, and blond. There was something sinister in his smile. He then addressed her in French,

"Of course, we are standing in your way." He then graciously stepped backwards to make the path to the gate clear. Marie clutched her Rosary beads tightly in her hand, and walked towards the gate. As she lifted the catch the man spoke to her again, "May I ask you, where are you going at this hour of the morning?" Marie half turned towards him, afraid to meet his stare, and answered quietly, "Dawn Mass." The man looked at her strangely, almost suspiciously. "May I see your book?"

Marie began to feel buzzing in her ears. She felt faint, nauseous. Nervously handing him her missal, she leant back against the fence to support herself. _If they had come for her parents, what would they do to her and Clotilde?_ He flicked through it slowly, before asking her.

"Surely your family go with you to Mass?"

"No." She answered, singularly.

"Tell me, why has a young girl such as yourself been taken so much with Roman Catholicism, despite the…_perfidiousness_ of her family?"

Marie stared blankly at him, completely unprepared to answer such a question. She said quietly. "They are not perfidious."

He looked at her strangely and answered softly, "That, Mademoiselle, is not what I have been told." Marie gasped; there was something dark, and terrible, behind his words.

"This book is in Latin – do you understand it?"

"Yes." She answered honestly.

"So…tell me what this means…" He began, smirking. Marie could feel her palms beginning to sweat. Why was he asking her so many questions?

He then began to extract certain phrases from the book, to which Marie mumbled a translation. Then his questions became more difficult; "So, Mlle, tell me the gender, case and number", "What tense is this? And what voice?"

Marie's answers were choked out; she herself was drowning in fear.

"Masculine, nominative…no, no, vocative! And singular." She answered his questions as best she could. Her hands were now sweating profusely, so terrified was she to answer a question wrong. The scene was perverse – what would happen if she answered wrongly? Would it be like school, where the Latin master took her to the front of the class and drove a strap down hard into her hand? No, there was something much more sinister behind this all.

Eventually he was satisfied that she knew her missal and handed it back to her.

"What's your name?"

"Marie."

"Your full name."

"Marie Rousseau."

"Any relation to Jean-Jacques?" He asked sarcastically.

Marie frowned, and said "_No_" from behind clenched teeth.

"And how old are you?"

"Fourteen."

He noted her details in a black, leather bound notebook. His fountain pen was made of white metal and engraved with the name _H. Landa. _Marie realised then who he was - the_ Jew Hunter._

Marie involuntarily let out an audible gasp. She could feel her blood run cold, unable to control her fear. She had become very pale and was by this stage shaking violently. The man – _Landa _- turned to her and asked, "Are you all right?" He put a gloved hand on the side of her face and Marie's head shot back immediately, disgusted that he had touched her.

"I- I have to go to mass." She whispered.

"Of course." He replied, almost kindly. "I shan't keep you further. Go on."

Marie walked quickly out the gate and along the road to town. She felt the urge to run. God, how she wanted to run; just to get away from the Germans. As she walked along the road beside the trucks she could hear other SS men speaking in German. It unnerved her greatly – the urge to run was growing – just to get away, to get away to safety.

Eventually she reached the town and she began to feel a sense of security returning to her. The church she attended – St. Agnes' – was along the main street, with a café beside it and a post office opposite. It wasn't an especially big church, but it was big enough to meet the needs of the town. It was one of those old style churches which were opulently decorated inside. The priest, Fr. Renaud, was a young man who had recently been ordained, having studied at a seminary. His ideas were staunchly conservative, and it was this man who wielded most influence over Marie. Indeed, he taught her catechism class at school.

However, as he began to rattle off the Tridentine Mass, Marie found herself distracted, unable to follow the Latin rite. Her mind drifted off during the priest's homily, which today focused on the subject of God's mercy, with reference to the parable of the Prodigal Son. After going to receive communion, humbly kneeling on the altar rails as the host was placed in her mouth, she forced herself to pray. _Please God, protect my family. Protect us from the Germans. Give me the courage to face them._

Marie walked back slowly to her house, dreading to find out whether the Germans were still there. Her heart sank as she saw the German trucks still _in situ_ outside her home.

She had nearly reached the gate when she felt a hand roughly grab her, turning her and throwing her to the ground. Marie screamed, as a man, this one a lower ranked officer, threw himself on top of her. In the corner of her eye she saw other men gathered around her, all shouting in German. The man ran his gloved hands over her body, tugging at her clothes, trying to pull up her skirt. Marie used her hands to futilely try to defend herself; the man eventually grabbed the rosary beads clenched in her fist, in an attempt to throw them away. Marie refused to let them go, and they snapped, with the beads spilling onto the ground. At that point she heard him, _Landa,_ shouting in German at the man on top of her. He stood up and Landa put his hands under her shoulders to lift her. She stood up herself and pushed him away, sobbing. As she stepped back her ankle caught a stone and she fell once more. He took a few steps towards her but stopped when he saw her backing away. Eventually she got to her feet and he said amicably, "I must apologise for my men; they have been warned previously about inflicting their…_amorous_ desires on the local female population."

Marie was still crying softly. She stared at him for a few second before running desperately home. He made no effort to chase her.

Marie was an innocent girl; she had no understanding whatsoever of sexuality. Landa's words confused her; it was many years before she realised that that man had been attempting to rape her.

Marie's mother, Colette, sat at the table in the kitchen smoking a cigarette. Her hair wasn't brushed, and her eyes were tired and weary. She hadn't had much sleep, worry was consuming her; she feared she was pregnant. At thirty-five she was getting older, and her involvement with the French Resistance put her in danger on a daily basis. Clotilde sat opposite her, she too smoking a cigarette. She was already dressed, and had done her hair and washed. The husband and father of the family, Pierre, stood by the cooker, spreading butter and strawberry jam on bread for breakfast.

Marie burst upon this quiet scene, crying and shaking miserably. Her parents listened with concern as she recounted what had happened. When she finished Marie murmured, "I need n-new rosary beads. T-they broke mine." She held up her broken beads pathetically, and her eyes began to well up again.

"Sit down and have some breakfast." Her father said kindly. Colette stood up as Pierre beckoned her to the corner of the room.

Marie and Clotilde ate in silence, but they could hear their parents whispering to each other; "Nazis? Nazis! What are they here for?"

"Have they come for us?"

"No – we haven't broken our cover, have we?"

Colette started to wring her hands, "They won't kill Marie and Clotilde, they're only children. No, no, they won't."

"No, Colette, you must stop with your worrying. They're probably looking for Jews…"

Marie overheard every word. The two sisters exchanged glances throughout the conversation; they shared an understanding that only sisters have.

Their father insisted on walking with them to school. As they approached the gate Pierre eyed the two SS officers suspiciously. Landa turned and greeted him cordially.

"Aha! M. Rousseau. I believe we haven't yet met. I must introduce myself; I am Col. Landa of the SS. I'm afraid I must inform you that the SS requires the use of your abode, while we complete our work in B-."

Marie started to shake, her blood went cold. Her father remained silent, and there was an angry flare in his eye. Landa smirked, almost daring him to react.

Pierre forced himself to smile. "Of course, Colonel. But for now, I must take my daughters to school."

"Ah yes – Marie and I have already been acquainted." He said, still grinning. He then turned to Clotilde, and asked, "Mlle, may I have the honour of knowing your name?"

Clotilde smiled in the sweet way she did, and her bright blue eyes stared directly into his.

"My name is Clotilde Rousseau, M. Landa."

"Mlle, excuse my pedantry, but in Germany we are very particular about titles. I must insist you call me Colonel."

_Pompous bastard. _She thought.

"If that is the case, _Colonel,_" Clotilde replied, "Then I insist that you do not speak to me familiarly." (Indeed, he had been using _tu _rather than _vous_.)

Marie froze - would he tolerate such impertinence? Indeed, his jaw dropped, but he quickly regained his composure, turned to Pierre and remarked, "Well, M. Rousseau, you certainly have a precocious daughter… I won't keep you further; is there anyone whom I can speak to at home?"

"My wife is at home." Pierre told him through clenched teeth, "She can help you."


	2. Chapter 2

When Marie and Clotilde returned from school, traces of the Germans could be seen in the house; the ashtray was full of cigarettes, half drunk glasses of beer littered the kitchen, and the spare bedrooms had been occupied. They stayed in the kitchen; their father told them that the Nazis had taken occupancy in the parlour.

Marie sat at the kitchen table to begin her homework, Clotilde preferred to go to her room.

Clotilde was tired from her day at school, and she had been given two hundred lines to do by Fr. Renaud for her impudence. She ascended the stairs slowly, lugging her heavy satchel behind her, with her eyes on the floor. As she crossed the landing, a German walked past her, knocking her shoulder back. She stumbled and nearly fell, but the man neither stopped nor apologised. She scowled and walked on. There was a hall in the centre of the house, with a staircase in the middle. From there branched two hallways and a bathroom straight ahead. Each hallway had three bedrooms, and Clotilde and Marie had each chosen the two bedrooms at the extremes of the hallway. Perhaps they had wanted to be as far away from each other as possible, but now Clotilde could feel a sense of trepidation in that she would have to share her hallway with two strangers.

She sat down at her desk, and began to write, "_I will show respect to my teachers._" Normally she would feel mildly annoyed, with a sense of righteous anger against Fr. Renaud, with his unwavering devotion to the church, and his dogmatic approach to religion, his desperate clinging to doctrine – it was laughable, or so it seemed to her. But today she had bigger worries; namely, how to deal with these intruders in her home. After finishing her lines, forsaking the rest of her homework she decided to visit the café. The café was the only place in town where young people could really socialise. It was run by a shrewd former politician, and served coffee and pastries at a price easily within the means of a teenager, however the saying "you get what you pay for" was especially true in this case; the pastries were often rock hard, the coffee bitter and you had to supply your own milk. However, Clotilde and her peers relished it.

She walked quietly out of her bedroom, trying to avoid eliciting any attention. She intended to exit through the door in the kitchen, but she had barely descended the stairs when she met Landa, who was walking in the opposite direction.

"Aha, Mlle. Rousseau, how are you this afternoon?"

"I am fine, Mo- _Colonel_. How are you?"

"I, too, am fine. May I ask where you are going?" Clotilde looked at him; he was smiling at her strangely. For some imperceptible reason, she felt like she shouldn't tell him; there was something untrustworthy about him. She searched her mind desperately.

"Um, I'm going to Mass."

"But it's only five."

"Yes, but I like to be there early."

"Early? What time does it start?"

"Seven…"

"You're going two hours early?" He smirked and raised an eyebrow as he asked her.

"Y-yes." She answered, trying to smile.

"I see." He said, "Mademoiselle, you make it very obvious when you are lying." Clotilde froze, and her mouth dropped opened slightly.

"Now, I suggest that you do not lie to _me_. Where are you going?" He was suddenly much sterner; his German accent began to cut into his French.

"I'm going to the café." Now, Clotilde dared not lie to him.

"_The Café?"_ His words dripped with condescension.

"Yes. In town."

"And whom are you meeting?"

"I don't know, I'll see who's there."

He looked up at her and said, "And do your parents know where you are go- oh, I apologise, I had forgotten, Mlle, you are an _adult._" Clotilde frowned; how had she let him talk down to her in such a way?

"Well, if you'll excuse me." She muttered, and tried to push past him, but he turned and grabbed hold of her arm, holding it so tight it was almost painful.

"_Manners, _Mademoiselle!" He said with mock horror, before releasing her and continuing towards the stairs.

Marie was relieved to reach the café. She peered inside the door to see if anyone was there she knew. Her eyes scoured the tables and eventually she noticed her friend Sophie in the corner.

She pushed open the door and made her way over to the table. It was Sophie's table of choice, apart from the others and partly in darkness. There was something altogether ridiculous about Sophie. She was tall, and her neck was long, not like a swan, but when one saw her the image of a giraffe came to mind. Her egg shaped head seemed to balance atop her neck precariously, almost as if it would break off. Her hair was blonde and long, but she refused since the age of twelve to have it cut, resulting in numerous split ends. Moreover, Sophie was an eccentric in every sense of the word. She certainly had bizarre ideas, and at times Clotilde found it difficult to know whether she was serious or not. When she attended Clotilde's school the teachers had little patience for her, and had come to the stage where he refused to have her in his class. This was not especially a problem for Sophie, as she was not particularly religious. She did, however, succeed at Classics.

"How are you?" She asked upon Clotilde's arrival.

"I'm fine." She replied.

"How are you managing those Germans?"

"How do you know about that?" Clotilde replied, sitting down.

"Oh, I saw them outside your house when I was out this morning."

Clotilde sighed, looked at her friend tiredly.

"It's a nightmare. They're all over the house."

"Gosh. What about Marie?"

"Oh, Marie hates it. You know what she's like around men."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think it makes her anxious, to say the least."

"Ah, I see what you mean."

"So how was school?"

"School? School was fine. Renaud gave me 200 lines."

"Are you serious?" Sophie laughed, "He used to give me far worse than lines!"

"No, no, Sr. Perpetua is the worst though," Clotilde replied, "I always get the cane off her for not learning my vocabulary."

"Does she teach you Spanish?"

"No, Italian."

"My God, remember that old nun who used to teach us maths." Sophie murmured.

Clotilde shuddered, that old nun had been particularly brutal with her pupils. As a young girl she would dread going to her maths lessons. She drank too much, and would use corporal punishment for the slightest indiscretion. Clotilde was once slapped in the face for arriving two minutes late.

"Yes, they sent her away though. Thank God for that."

"They sent her away? I heard a rumour that she died, and they buried her under the school."

Clotilde laughed, and said, "Oh Sophie, don't be so silly."

"It's not silly at all. These religious, they get up to all sorts of things we laypeople couldn't dream of."

"So are you going to go to lycee?" asked Sophie gently. Sophie was a year older than Clotilde, and had already progressed to the world of the Lycee, whereas Clotilde still attended College.

"I don't know." She said gently; she was still unsure about it all.

By the time she had returned home it was dark. Marie had gone to and returned from Mass. Pierre and Colette were sitting in the kitchen, both smoking.

"Where have you been?" Asked her father as Clotilde entered the kitchen. There was no worry in his voice; it was just a simple question.

"The café."

"Did you have something to eat?"

"No, but I'm not really hungry, Papa."

She went to bed that night without saying goodnight to Marie. As she ascended the stairs she could see two soldiers standing on the landing talking in German. The disruption was only beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day was a Saturday. As Mass wasn't until 10.30am, Marie had the morning to herself. She liked to go on walks; today was no different.

She slid out of bed and walked towards her dresser. She pulled off her nightdress and put on her white woollen tights, followed by a white undershirt and her black dress. Her shoes were brown, lace-up flats. She brought with her a small brown handbag in which she kept her keys.

She walked down the stairs tentatively, almost expecting a German to appear at every juncture. When she got out the door she sighed a sigh of relief, and began her long trek towards the "Chausée". If you walked in the opposite direction of the town, leaving from the Rousseau's house, you would gradually reach higher and higher ground. Eventually, you would reach the peak of a small hill, on which there was a large path, made of a single piece of prehistoric rock, which Marie and Clotilde had christened the "chausée" as children, on the other side of which was a plateau.

By the time she reached the top of the hill she was tired. She sat down on the rock to rest, setting her bag down beside her, and looked out across the town. There seemed to be a sense of peace, completely at odds with what was going on elsewhere in Europe. The sun was still rising, and it cast an ominous red light across the landscape. As she stood up slowly she realised her bag had slid across the rock down onto the other side.

Marie turned to fetch it, and in the corner of her eye she caught sight of a piece of brown cloth. She climbed across the rock on her knees and peered over the other side. At once she let out a panicked, piercing scream.

Lying in front of her were the bodies of four people – three men and a woman. Their eyes had glossed over, the colour of their eyes faded, and the skin had become waxy and pale. Hair was variously matted with dirt and blood, and their clothes were stained. Marie tried to calm herself, and shaking violently she moved closer to the bodies. It was then that she began to recognise the people lying there. One of the men and the woman were fishmongers who had gone missing some months previously – Marie knew them to be Jews. The other two men were friends of her father: a young man who worked as a carpenter, the other was a retired teacher. Both had been members of "_B- Workers' Party."_

Marie shuddered, and immediately a terrible sense of fear began to consume her. She stood up and ran, as fast as she could, leaving her bag behind her. She ran faster and faster as she got closer to the bottom, and she was halfway there when she realised that she had forgotten her keys. Turning slowly, she walked up the hill once more, trying to run, but the thick materials she was wearing and her general lack of fitness made it difficult.

She was less than a third of the way there when she saw two soldiers and Landa marching an elderly man towards the rock. She froze and slowly backed away. She had barely turned when she heard the gun fire.

Marie knew she couldn't go home, as she had no keys. Somewhat forlornly, she decided to go into town, and ended up spending the morning wandering about aimlessly, until the clock struck ten and she went to church for Mass. She prayed earnestly throughout the service, asking God for protection – there was nothing more that she needed now.

When the Mass finished Marie reached her hand into her pocket and realised that she had a few coins – mainly centimes, left from when she had been buying bread earlier in the week. She decided to purchase new Rosary beads, and a shudder ran through her when she recalled the events of the previous day.

Religious artefacts were always for sale in a small room beside the sacristy. Marie entered the room and stood at the back of the queue patiently, waiting while others in front of her purchased memorial cards, statues, medals and various other Roman Catholic paraphernalia.

Marie had just got her beads when Fr. Renaud peered in, sticking his head around the doorpost.

"Marie Rousseau! Is she here?" He surveyed the room, and when he caught sight of her beckoned her towards him. Marie turned and approached him gingerly (she was always deferential towards priests), holding her new beads.

"There is a _gentleman_ here looking for you." He said in hushed tones. He turned to return to the sacristy, but turned back and asked, "Marie, these Germans…how do I put this? Have they…" He couldn't bring himself to say the words; the thought was almost too horrific for him. Marie was the only girl at present whom he taught who had both the intelligence and piety to become a didactic nun. He would not have her _corrupted_ by these intruders from the north.

Marie froze up when she saw who the man was. Landa was standing in the porch of the church, looking around him lackadaisically.

"Aha Mademoiselle." He said, and held aloft her brown, leather bag, "I believe this belongs to you."

Marie became very pale, and she could feel her stomach turning. She reached her hand out nervously and took the bag from him. It was almost too much for her to bear. Fortunately, Fr. Renaud approached the two of them and, placing a hand on Marie's shoulder, addressed Landa amicably.

"So, Monsieur, will you and your men be participating in the life of the Parish?"

Landa chuckled and replied, "Unfortunately, _Padre, _I am a Protestant. I rely on my faith and not my attendance at church to save me." There was something sardonic about his statement, like he didn't believe it himself.

The priest frowned and pursed his lips. "But," Landa continued, "I have several men under me who affiliate with the Church of Rome."

"I see," answered Renaud, his grip on Marie's shoulder tightening. He too had suspicions about this man.

Landa turned and left, and the priest muttered under his breath _"Thou believest that there is one God; thou doest well: the devils also believe, and tremble."†_ Turning to Marie, he told her, "Be careful around that man. You can't trust any of them." He then walked back to the sacristy, leaving Marie alone in the porch.

Marie walked back to the house slowly, her legs felt somehow heavier today. When she reached the house she opened her small bag to get her keys, but her fingers curled around a piece of paper. It read:

Mlle. Rousseau

_ If I were you, and I am not, I would not reveal what you discovered this morning to anyone. I assure you that to do so would have unpleasant consequences for you. _

_ H. Landa_

Marie's stomach sank and, trembling, she put the piece of paper back into her bag. She had never felt so terrified in her life.

* A path or way

† James 2:19 (KJV)


	4. Chapter 4

**I'd like to thank all the people who've been reading this. :)**

**This chapter contains violence and minor character death, be warned. **

* * *

Clotilde woke up at noon. She didn't understand why she had slept on so long; perhaps she didn't want to wake up. She didn't know what to do with herself; it was a free day; she had nothing pressing that had to be done. Her homework didn't count.

After she had got dressed she walked down the stairs to the direction of the kitchen. She peered in to see if anyone was there, and when she saw it was empty she went in, filled he kettle with water, and sat it on the range to make tea. She went to the storeroom, where a bottle of milk was kept in a bucket of cold water. In these times milk was a treat, but she felt she needed something with a bit of substance. Returning the kitchen she sat the bottle on the table and went to the cupboard to get a cup. As she reached upwards she heard the kitchen door swing open, and the sound of heavy boots walking across the floor.

Clotilde groaned. The two Germans took their seats at the table, and one of them shouted to her in broken French, "Mlle, you making tea? Make us a cup." Marie frowned, feeling irked. _They come into our home and order me about. Who do they think they are? _

Marie set the two cups of tea down in front of them, and rather than sitting at the table with them stood awkwardly in the corner drinking hers. The two soldiers were young men; they couldn't have been much older than her. In different circumstances Clotilde would have relished being alone with them, however now there was an aura of threat, a suggestion of danger.

She walked outside and made her way to town. It was the beginning of spring, and her hay fever was beginning to play up. She began to sneeze, and remembering she had some tissues in her handbag took them. However it only seemed to get worse, and her eyes began to water.

Clotilde sighed, and realised she would have to go home – she couldn't go into town in this condition. Walking homewards she had reached the gate when she heard someone coming behind her. She turned and saw that it was Sophie, who had been running after her. Relieved, Clotilde turned and they embraced.

"So…" she said, "Are you running from me?"

"No, Sophie, I have hay fever."

"Oh dear. Do you want to go inside?"

"Not really, but I can't go to town."

The two girls walked back to the Rousseau's house, and decided to go to the library, where they played checkers, and then chess.

* * *

"Checkmate."

"That's not checkmate." Said Sophie, and she moved her bishop diagonally to dispense with Clotilde's queen. Clotilde sighed.

"Eugh. I never beat you at chess."

The two of them turned as the door of the library swung open. Clotilde turned sharply, expecting some of the Germans to come bursting through the door. It was Marie.

"Marie?" Sophie called, a look of concern on her face. "You look dreadful."

Marie was shaking, and very, very pale.

"What's wrong?" Asked Clotilde.

"N-nothing." She answered, and walked behind a bookshelf.

"Never mind," Clotilde muttered, turning to Sophie, "she's probably worried about her immortal soul."

Sophie laughed softly, "Poor girl. Does she ever do anything that's not related to religion?"

"I don't think so." Clotilde answered quietly. She did feel better. "Do you want to venture outside now, Sophie?"

As they were leaving, they met Colette, who was standing in the kitchen, kneading dough.

"Marie, where are you going?"

"I'm Clotilde, Maman. We're going to town."

"Sorry." She turned, "Hello Sophie."

"Hello Madame."

"I don't want you going into town today."

'Why?"

"Just…just."

Clotilde looked puzzled, "But-"

"No, I really think you should stay here. Sophie, you can stay here too."

Sophie nodded. "Of course, Madame." Clotilde turned to her friend, confused; it seemed Sophie understood something in her mother's command that she didn't.

* * *

It was Sunday when they heard the news that two Germans had been shot dead in broad daylight on Saturday afternoon. The Germans were marching about furiously, and Landa was barking orders left, right and centre. Sophie and Clotilde were woken by the sound of jackboots pounding on the floorboard.

Sophie shot up suddenly from the cot she was sleeping on in the room, and looked about her. She whispered, "I wonder if they did it…"

After getting dressed the two of them descended the stairs to the kitchen. Pierre was standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. He worked every day except a Sunday, as an artisan – he had rejected the bourgeois vocation of his ancestors – law, and instead spent his days in his workshop.

As they entered, he turned and asked quietly, "Have you heard?"

"What happened?" Clotilde asked, taking a seat at the table.

"Two of them were killed yesterday afternoon." The corners of his mouth lifted as if to smile, but decided against it.

Clotilde's mouth dropped open, "Who…"

"The resistance, I would assume." The voice came from the doorway. Clotilde cringed – it was _him_.

Landa stepped into the room and walked to the range, where he lifted the kettle to fill it with water.

"But," he began, "have no worries. I shall find them."

Sophie snorted.

He turned sharply, "Something funny?"

Sophie smiled. "Nothing, Monsieur."

Landa's expression darkened, and he took a step closer to Sophie. "What's your name, girl?"

"Sophie Thomas, Monsieur." She was still smiling.

"And what are the names of your parents?"

"César and Bérènice Thomas, Monsieur."

"Now, I am aware that both of your parents are members of the resistance. With any luck, they will have been shot by now. I am simply waiting on a report."

Sophie's mouth dropped open, and involuntarily she gasped. Landa's mouth twisted into a smile.

"So, I believe the question is, Mlle, are you also a member of the resistance?"

Sophie said nothing. There was nothing she could say. With renewed confidence she turned to Landa, and spat in his face.

Landa said nothing, but removed a tissue from his oat pocket, and wiped his face, and then in a sudden, violent movement, he reached out and took hold of Sophie by the hair, forcing her down, and dragged her outside.

Clotilde had remained frozen throughout this episode, and it was only when she heard the gunshot that she fully comprehended what was happening. Her breaths became shallower, and she began to panic. Jumping from her seat, she ran toward the door to follow them outside. Her father swung his arms around her, in an effort to stop her, but she broke free.

Sophie was lying face down on the ground, her legs splayed. The gunshot wound in her head was obvious – the blood left her hair in sticky, tangled mess. Landa was standing over the body, nonchalantly replacing his handgun in its holder.

Clotilde covered her mouth with her hand, and collapsed against the doorframe. She couldn't cry; she could barely breathe. She couldn't believe what had happened. She wanted to call out, to cry, to sob, but the breath caught in her throat.

Landa turned to her and smirked. "Mademoiselle, you should keep better company than _this_."


	5. Chapter 5

Marie walked back from the Molyneux's house. She worked on their farm on Saturdays, and she had gone to apologise for her absence the previous afternoon.

By the time she had come home it was 11.30am, and as soon as she entered the house she could sense the tension, a feeling of uneasiness.

Clotilde was sitting at the table in the kitchen, her face expressionless. Colette was sitting beside her, with a maternal arm around her.

"What's wrong?" Marie asked, becoming concerned.

"They killed Sophie." Clotilde answered, her voice completely toneless – it was as if this was as mundane as anything.

Colette's lips were parched, her eyes grey. This was another event she couldn't cope with, but sitting upright she tried to force herself to.

"Marie," she said softly, "I don't think we'll be going to mass this morning, but you can go ahead if you want."

Marie hesitated for a second before answering, "No. I – I'll stay here, with Clotilde."

The two girls spent the rest of the day in the library. Clotilde sat by the window (the library had a single, translucent, stained glass window), reading, and her face was emotionless, incomprehensible. Usually there was an implicit, unspoken understanding between them; but today there was something different. Clotilde was aloof, separated from her sister by her own wall of grief. It made Marie uneasy – she was completely powerless; it was as if there was nothing she could do to make the situation better.

* * *

"Rousseau! Rousseau, answer my question!" The priest slammed his heavy book down on her desk, and Clotilde jolted upright, having been woken from a dreamless sleep.

"Rousseau, not only have you been sleeping in my class _again, _but you don't know the answer, do you?" His question was deliberately provocative, a calculated part of a futile battle for classroom supremacy between himself and Clotilde.

Clotilde looked to the side and sighed, and put her head down once more on the desk.

"Rousseau, what is scandal?"

Clotilde closed her eyes, and said quietly, "I don't know."

"And what is the difference between mortal and venial sin?"

"I don't know, Father."

"You don't know anything, do you, Rousseau?" He said, and the other girls in the class giggled. He expected a comeback, sharp and impetuous. At least it kept the lessons interesting. It was then that Clotilde's eyes filled with water, and she began to cry.

"No. I don't, Father."

Renaud was made uneasy by her emotional outburst, and sighed before putting his hand to his face.

"Rousseau, come with me." He said quietly, and beckoned her from her desk. They walked in silence along the corridor of the old school building, until they reached the oratory, where the girls sat attended Mass once a week.

The oratory was fairly pathetically decorated in comparison to the chapel in town. There was something drab about the place and, aside from a painting of an icon done by a student, the room was completely plain. Renaud indicated a pew and Clotilde sat down.

"So, Rousseau, what's wrong?" He asked, somewhat sternly.

Clotilde had in the past professed her loathing for this man, and she didn't quite understand why she told him; perhaps she just wanted to talk to someone, maybe she was subconsciously beginning to make her peace with authority – she didn't know.

"So he shot Sophie Thomas?" He said quietly, "My God. She was only sixteen."

"He killed Mme. and M. Thomas as well." Clotilde said, closing her eyes to allow the water built up to fall across her cheek.

Renaud sat down on the pew opposite her, and then said to her delicately, "Go home, Clotilde. Take some time off school; spend it outdoors, away from those Germans."

Clotilde nodded, "Yes, Father."

It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her first name.

* * *

Clotilde walked home somewhat forlornly, and seeing that there were German soldiers in the kitchen went to the library. She felt restless; there was an anger swelling up inside her. She had never felt such rage in her life. She hated the Germans; she loathed them, she wanted them to be out of her house, out of her life. She turned and looked at the shelf, and a very particular book caught her eye: _Manifeste du Parti Communiste. _*

It was an old edition; the publication date was 1900. Clotilde sat down at the chair and opened it gingerly. It was somethin forbidden, something she perhaps had been sheltered from. She felt her heartbeat increase as she began to read :

_A spectre is haunting Europe—the spectre of Communism. _

It all seemed to make sense to her common sense propositions that should have been implemented years ago. As she read she became more and more impassioned, and by the time she finished; she knew that she had to do something.

Clotilde had been sitting in a darkened corner of the library when the door creaked open she felt her heart jump into her mouth. The figure took a cursory glance about the room before taking a seat at the desk. Clotilde froze, and she suddenly realised that it was a Nazi. _My God – I'm holding a copy of the Communist Manifesto. _She thought.

She shifted on the chair to hide the book down the side of the cushion, and as she did so the man's head perked up, and once more he turned and looked about the room. As he spotted her, Clotilde's heart sank. _Landa. _

He strode towards her, smiling sinisterly. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he began, and glanced at his watch, "surely at this hour you should be at school?"

Clotilde could feel her heart beating faster and harder – it was as if the book was burning a hole in the cushion, just waiting to incriminate her.

"No, Colonel. They've given me time off." Clotilde's voice began to falter, "after Sophie's death."

"I see." He tittered.

Clotilde felt a surge of anger – red-hot indignation against this man. _He's laughing at me – he's laughing at Sophie! _However, Clotilde tried to keep calm. She inhaled deeply and gritted her teeth, waiting for him to leave her alone.

Landa frowned, and said darkly, "Well, Mademoiselle, I'll leave you."

He had just turned to leave, when he swivelled and asked hesitantly, "Mlle, what are you reading?" With his hand he was indicating the spine of the book, which protruded from between the back of the chair and the cushion.

Clotilde went white, and she opened her mouth to answer, but her throat was dry, and she couldn't find the words. He placed his hands on each arm of the chair and, bearing over her, glanced at the title of the book. Clotilde closed her eyes; the blood was thumping hard in her ears.

Landa stood up straight in front of her; he wasn't laughing now. Clotilde was shaking, and looked at him only to avert her eyes quickly on meeting his hard stare – now there was something cold and ruthless, uncompromising and merciless.

He put his hand to his side and took his handgun from its holder, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on her.

"It seems I underestimated you, Mademoiselle. Stand up."

* The Communist Manifesto.


	6. Chapter 6

**Again, thanks to all the people who've been reading this. **

**I'm sorry if this chapter is a tad "philosophical", please bear with me! **

* * *

Clotilde stood up slowly, feeling faint – she could hear buzzing in her ears. _He's going to shoot me, like he shot Sophie. _

"So, you're a filthy red?"

Clotilde opened her mouth to speak, and all the fervour and passion she had gained dissipated into a cloud of fear.

"I've never read that book before. I only found it today."

Landa looked at her contemptuously, and picked up the book from the chair. He opened it, rolled his eyes, and said, "Is that why you wrote your name on it?"

He held the book in front of her, and Clotilde's eyes found the signature of her grandmother. Her stomach sank: she was also named 'Clotilde Rousseau.'

"T-that's my grandmother's signature."

He was silent – he was deciding what to do. Clotilde's eyes travelled to the gun still held in his hand. Landa noticed, and replaced the gun in its holder.

"That may be so, Mademoiselle, but I must asked you," he said, while his stern expression changed to a smirk, "Why a Catholic girl such as yourself, on finding this atheistic trash, would not feel compelled to burn it?"

Clotilde was still on edge; she tried to think of an answer, but her mind went blank.

"I don't burn books because I'm not a Nazi."

Clotilde regretted saying it almost as soon as the words had left her mouth. To her surprise Landa didn't react with anger, but only laughed.

"Well, I think today would be a good time to start." He stepped away from her, and glancing about the room found the disused fireplace with a cry of "Aha!"

"Light the fire, Mademoiselle."

She got down on her knees and lit the fire with difficulty, painfully aware that he was standing right behind her. As the flame began to spread across the coals, she stood up nervously, and Landa stepped around her in front of the fire.

"Well," He began, while tearing a clump of pages from the book and throwing them into the fire, "what did you think?"

"Pardon?"

"Of the book, Mademoiselle."

Clotilde opened her mouth but closed it again quickly. She didn't know what to say – it was as if he was having an intellectual conversation with her, but the fact that he was wearing an SS uniform and carrying a gun made her wary of answering.

"I first read Marx when I was your age," he said, casually tearing more pages and tossing them into the grate, "he writes well," Landa closed his eyes before opening them slowly, and hissed, "for a _Jew."_

Clotilde swallowed. In her Christian upbringing she had never so much as met a Jew, and therefore she had no experience upon which to make a judgement on them as a people. Her parents' egalitarian views had certainly made an impression on her, and as a result she responded with puzzlement to the Nazis' vitriolic anti-Semitism.

"Now, tell me, Mlle, why you decided to pull this book out of the bookcase, out of all the many wonderful books here?" He glanced at the bookcase in front of him, lifted the first book he saw, and laughed. He handed it to her, and Clotilde shuddered; _La Philosophie dans le boudoir.*_

"You should read that – maybe then you'll learn something. Nevertheless, your parents certainly have…_interesting _taste."

Eventually when Landa had ripped out all the pages he threw the cover in the fire, and said, "Now, that was easy, wasn't it?"

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Clotilde standing in the middle of the room.

* * *

It was the following day before Clotilde dared to open the book he had given her. By the time she had read fifty pages Clotilde felt sick; she put the book down, confused thoughts swirling round her head. Her belief system had been mocked and ridiculed and a soft, sinister feeling of disillusioned cynicism was swallowing her up. It was only then that she realised the meaning of Christ's words "Quis est veritas?", and finding her legs going weak, sat down, and began to cry.

* * *

Marie was walking home from school that Tuesday when she realised she had forgotten her Italian grammar. She walked along the corridor and had barely reached her classroom when she heard raised voices. She peered in through the door to see Fr. Renaud standing beside her Italian teacher, arguing with a group of three German soldiers.

"I assure you, Monsieur, Sr. Perpetua is a Catholic, not a Jew!"

"Her current religious affiliation is irrelevant, Father. Get out of the way."

Renaud stood his ground, but one of the soldiers sidestepped him to seize hold of the nun's arm. She shrieked, and he shouted,"Get your hands off her! How dare you!", before turning sharply to try and pull him off her. The soldier released her momentarily to turn and, balling his fist, punch the priest hard in the stomach. Renaud crumpled against a desk, and, seething, stood up again. His fist was shaking, and his face was red. The normally immaculate priest's hair had become messy, his robes were dissheveled – he was clearly furious.

The nun, who had remained silent throughout this episode, then said sadly, "Jacq-, Fr. Renaud, leave it. I'll go with them."

Two soldiers held her by the arms and marched her out of the classroom. Marie stepped back against the door while they walked past. She closed her eyes, and slid down onto the floor, sitting with her back against the wall. She remembered the bodies in the ditch behind the "Chausée", and sobbed.

* * *

The days passed in an uneventful manner until the following Sunday, when the Rousseau family attended High Mass together. Marie jumped when she saw that there was a group of several German soldiers sitting a few rows ahead of them, but tried to focus on the service.

It was when Fr. Renaud began his homily at the ambo that she became uneasy.

"Today our second reading was from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. Now I feel that it is important that I discuss it today, since there are evidently some among us who do not understand it." He glanced with contempt at the soldiers sitting in the pews, and then returned to his notes.

"Now, St. Paul tells us '_For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body: so also is Christ.'_ What does this mean? Well, Paul makes this clearer in the following verse '_For by one Spirit are we all baptized into one body, whether we be Jews or Gentiles, whether we be bond or free; and have been all made to drink into one Spirit' _Now, I must make this clear. The Bible, which is the word of God, tells us that "by one Spirit are we all baptized into one body", that is the Body of the Church, which is the Bride of Christ. But there is one phrase I must emphasise: 'whether we be Jews or Gentiles.' Now there are certain men among us who should be reminded of the Man whom we worship, who was a Jew; his apostles, who were Jews; his mother, who was a Jew. And of course, we must not forget Paul of Tarsus, who was a Jew. We must remember that Christ was crucified as Rex Iudaeorum – that is – King of the Jews."

Marie felt her stomach twisting, and it was when the group of soldiers stood up one by one and marched out of the church that she began to shake. The priest looked at them angrily, his face a mixture of contempt and fear. He opened his mouth to condemn them, but closed it, and returned to his homily.

"As such," he continued, "as Christians, and as Catholic Christians, we should particularly remember the words of…"

The priests' words trailed off, and he fell silent, and looked at the back of the church. Gradually the congregation turned and looked, as one of the soldiers turned and shouted, "Heil Hitler!" before storming out with the others.

*Philosophy in the Bedroom (De Sade)


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter is very short because the second half is actually rated M – it's in the M section in a oneshot called 'Rubor'. Chapter 8 will follow on from this so you don't actually have to read it to follow the story. I intended to make it T but it became M as I wrote it…oh well.**

**And thank you for reading. **

* * *

Pierre and Colette made a point of going to speak to Renaud when Mass ended. Marie and Clotilde stood outside the doors of the church, waiting patiently for them to leave.

"He was right." Marie said quietly to her sister, staring down along the street.

"So?" Clotilde answered, "That doesn't matter. He'll end up getting shot."

"But he's not a Jew. The Nazis hate the Jews; they're the people they've been shooting. They wouldn't shoot a priest."

"Sophie wasn't a Jew."

Marie's mouth snapped shut, and she looked away awkwardly. Indeed, she and Clotilde were growing further apart.

The following day at breakfast Clotilde decided that she would go back to school; although she still was prone to bouts of tears and depression, she was growing bored and lonely in the house during the week, and wanted some human contact.

Her first lesson was Italian – Sr. Perpetua had not yet been replaced, so they sat and read novels while a young convent novice supervised them. There was something sombre about it all; although no one talked about what had happened, most people could guess; it was well known that she had been a Jew before converting to Catholicism.

The day continued in the same, depressive fashion and she went home, without really speaking to anyone; she never had many friends at school, and didn't feel like making any.

It was as she was walking home that she spotted a poster attached to the wall of the building adjacent to the school. It was appealing for information about members of the Resistance. A particular line caught her eye – _those collaborating with members of the resistance will be shot. _

Clotilde swallowed, thinking of her parents. She had long suspected that they were members, although they would never have told her or Marie. It was then that an idea entered her head, and immediately she forced it out, disgusted with herself. _Should she tell the Nazis? Maybe they would spare her and Marie. _

She shut it out, and told herself it was ridiculous. No, no – she couldn't! However, as she walked home the idea wormed its way further and further into her psyche, and by the time she had reached the gate outside her house she had almost decided to do it, and then thinking of her parents she shuddered, horrified at herself.

She didn't sleep properly that night, worrying and thinking about what was going to happen. Would they discover what her parents were doing? Would they shoot her and Marie? The image of Sophie lying face down on the ground flashed in her mind's eye. She stood up to them – what did she achieve?

It was several days later when she decided what she would do. _If _– _when, surely, _she thought, _they discover that they're in the resistance, they'll all die. But they'll let me and Marie live if I tell them. Maybe. _

She knew then that she had to do it. Walking slowly up the stairs, she could feel her legs turning to lead. Her breathing became laboured, she was so frightened. She understood – _once I do this there's no going back. _

He was staying on the third floor of the house, where her parents stayed. She closed her eyes tight as she knocked on the door, her arm shaking involuntarily.

The door opened suddenly, and Clotilde jumped.

"Aha – Mademoiselle, can I help you?"

"Yes. Colonel Landa, may I speak to you?"


	8. Chapter 8

**This chapter is T rated, but there are lots of allusions to sexual violence. I know this is very dark, but it will get a bit happier. **

* * *

Clotilde got to her feet with difficulty. She could feel a soreness that travelled along her hips as she tried to stand up. There was a wetness between her legs – a mixture of urine, excrement, sweat, semen and menstrual blood.

She put her hand against the desk to support herself, and looking up she saw him standing and watching her, smiling. It was then, when she saw his _smug, arrogant_ face that she began to become angry, rage and fury swelling up within her.

"Are you sore, Clotilde?" he asked mordantly.

Clotilde didn't answer, but lifted her underwear and dress from the ground, biting her tongue, trying to restrain herself, just so she wouldn't provoke him. She put on her clothes lopsidedly, and turned and looked at him, trying to fix her hair so that it sat in the conventional position.

He led her down the stairs in front of him, holding her by the shoulders. Her parents were sitting in the kitchen, smoking. Marie was doing her homework with a cup of tea in front of her, calmly inhaling her parents' cigarette smoke.

Landa didn't say anything; he just took his handgun, raised it and fired twice.

Marie let out a bloodcurdling scream, and dived to the floor, covering her face with her hands, and whimpering. Clotilde didn't make a sound – she felt frozen with shock. Her mother was slumped over the table, blood pouring out onto Marie's schoolbooks.

Clotilde never cried over her parents' deaths. It was as though her own guilt had a numbing effect on her, stifling her grief and preventing its expression. After a few seconds Marie got to her feet, and looked about the room. She began to sob earnestly, clutching at her dress and wringing her hands. She walked to her mother's body, putting her arms around her and trying to embrace it.

Clotilde was startled at this morbid scene, and tried to pry Marie away from the body, somehow angered by Marie's display of grief and suffering.

"Marie, let her go."

"No," she replied, trying to push her sister away.

Clotilde was stronger than Marie, and putting her arms around her, managed to pull her away from the corpse into an embrace. They held each other, and Marie sobbed into her sister's shoulder; Clotilde looked up at Landa, who was still standing at the back of the room. His face was hidden in the shadow, but Clotilde could still see that he was sneering. He then walked out casually, leaving the two of them standing together in the blood spattered room.

* * *

The following day Clotilde spent hours washing her blood soaked dress. She sat outside, in the courtyard where Sophie had been killed. She ran it along the washboard until her knuckles were raw, her hands burning from the ammonia soap. It was then that she began to feel guilt, a horrific, crushing guilt, and a sense of fear.

That night Clotilde was woken by the sound of knocking on her bedroom door. She glanced at the clock in the corner – midnight. She opened the door cautiously, and peering out saw Landa standing on the other side. Immediately she tried to close the door, but he forced it open, throwing Clotilde onto the ground. She immediately curled, up, trying to protect herself from what she assumed would be a violation akin to the one she had suffered the previous day.

However, Landa, said quietly, "Get up, I have no interest in sexual relations tonight."

Clotilde stood up cautiously, and then as his eyes travelled southwards she became aware that her night dress, which she had had since she was a child, would have appeared rather too short for her. He smirked, and she blushed.

"Why I have come to see you, Clotilde, is so that we can come to an arrangement."

Clotilde swallowed.

"Now, from now on," he continued, "you'll do as my men want. That is, until we've finished our work here."

Clotilde began to shake, as it dawned on her what she was being asked to do.

"But-"

"If you refuse," he declared, "I'll let them have Marie as well."

Clotilde began to panic, and feeling her voice begin to falter, cried, "No! No, please, not this, not this! Please, not again!"

He replied sharply, "Stop making a scene. I'm giving you a chance to be altruistic; to be selfless; to make up for your past selfishness." He proceeded to laugh and leave her.

* * *

It was that morning that Clotilde began to become desperately afraid. She and Marie had just got up to go to school when a hand seized her by the arm, and barked at her, "No – you're not going to school today."

Marie turned and had barely said, "Why…?", when Clotilde ordered her to go on.

Clotilde had never really given Hell much thought, but the days that followed from that were certainly what we would call "Hell on Earth". She lived a prisoner in her own home, terrified of every shadow and noise – each one was a threat to her. Her feeling towards the intruders grew from irritation to hatred; for their lust, their unconcern, and their cruelty. Her bedroom changed from a sanctuary to den of iniquity, and the bloodstained sheets served as a reminder to her each day of the abuse she had suffered.

It was about a week later when there was a knock on the door and she was summoned downstairs. She was taken to the drawing room – their "good" room which was rarely used except for guests.

Landa and Renaud were sitting opposite each other, each holding a glass of wine.

"Mademoiselle," Landa began (Clotilde noted his return to a formal tone), "Fr. Renaud would like to speak with you."

Clotilde sat down on an armchair positioned between them.

"Clotilde," the priest said, "I've become rather concerned that you haven't attended school in over a week – have you been ill?"

Clotilde wanted to tell him, right there and then, everything that had happened (the bodies of her parents were rotting in the ditch behind the chausee, unbeknownst to the general public in B-); how they were alone, and what was being done to her.

"No, I haven't been ill, Father." She said quietly. Landa pursed his lips.

"Then why have you been absent? Clotilde, I can't recommend you for lycee if you miss lessons for no reason."

Clotilde wanted to tell him, to share the horror of what was happening, to escape from it for one day – but Landa's presence beside her made feel unable to do so.

"No, Father. I've been grieving, still."

The priest sighed, "Well, Clotilde-" he stopped abruptly, and looked at her intently, before asking sharply, "How did you get those bruises on your neck?"

Clotilde began to shake. He turned and looked at Landa accusatorily, who continued to sip his wine detachedly.

Clotilde said an incoherent sentence about having fallen, but the priest wasn't satisfied.

"Clotilde, what's going on?"

Clotilde whispered her answer, and it was at the word _rape_ that the priest jumped to his feet, seething, rage spewing at every orifice. He launched into a tirade against Landa, spitting insults – depraved, immoral, wicked, degenerate, and so on until his lexicon of Catholic synonyms for "sinful" had been used up.

Landa continued sipping his wine, and, when the priest had finished, smiled widely, and asked indifferently, "So, what are you going to do about it?"


	9. Epilogue

**Alright, this is the final chapter of "Pascha". Thank you for reading it and I hope you enjoyed it. **

**I'm hoping to write a sequel to it at some stage in the future. :) **

* * *

The priest took a double take; he looked at Landa suspiciously, and murmured, "You don't care, do you?"

Landa snorted, "I should have thought that was obvious."

The priest looked at him with disgust, and turned to Clotilde, "Come on, let's go – you can stay in the parochial house."

Clotilde had barely got to her feet when Landa cocked his pistol and said, "Ah, ah – I don't think so. What, did you think I would just let you walk out?"

Renaud turned, and hissed – in German – "You're going to shoot me, Herr Landa?"

Landa, however, answered in French, "Oh no – that's what you want, isn't it? You'd love me to shoot you, so you can lie on the floor like the fucking crucified Christ-"

"Shut up! Shut up, you German bastard!" The priest screamed, unable to control his rage any longer. Landa stood up suddenly as the priest stormed towards him, his fist balled, ready to strike. He fired and Renaud crumpled to the ground. Blood was gushing from his leg, and he grasped it desperately, groaning in pain.

Landa stood over him, smiling, "Now, now," he began, resting his foot on Renaud's cheek, before kicking him gently, "Father Renaud, the priest, lying on the ground, bleeding to death. You're a French nationalist, aren't you?"

The priest clenched his mouth shut, and didn't answer.

"You're the sort who sympathises with the resistance, but isn't prepared to take action…am I right?"

No answer.

"Just like in your sermons…you preach about sexual immorality, but you…" Landa paused, and laughed loudly, "You preach about sexual immorality, but you've broken your vows, haven't you?"

The priest didn't answer – but Landa stamped his boot on the gunshot wound, eliciting a whimper.

"Haven't you? _That Jew –_ the nun…she was your lover, wasn't she?"

The priest's eyes widened, and he looked away from Landa, and laughed.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I saw you embrace, after church-"

The priest laughed again bitterly. "God, they call you the _Jew Hunter_. She's my cousin, you bastard!"

Landa's eyes widened, and his smirk changed to a frown.

"That's right, I was born a Jew!" The priest turned his head to the side, and, laughing, murmured, "_The Jew Hunter…_you knew she was a Jew, but you didn't realise we were related…"

He had barely said it when Landa's gun fired once more, promptly ending the priest's life.

Clotilde clamped her hand to her mouth, and gasped. Their front room was now covered with blood, and Landa smiled once more – his sense of power and control had been restored.

"Well, Clotilde – now you really are alone…let's not lose Marie, shall we? Remember our agreement."

He walked out of the room as casually as he had entered it, leaving her alone.

* * *

Marie didn't understand; she didn't understand and it frustrated her. She didn't understand why Clotilde wasn't allowed to leave; she didn't understand why she had become withdrawn and anti-social, shunning her company and spending time alone. She didn't understand why her parents had been shot; she didn't understand why her teacher had been taken away, she didn't understand why their parish priest was missing.

Marie still went to church, although there were no services, and spent her time sitting in the pews, praying – or trying to pray. She found it more and more difficult – becoming frustrated and angry. It was then, for the first time in her life, that she began to experience doubt. _Where was God now? _She left the church when it was dark, and throwing her rosary beads to the ground, stamped on them hard, so that the plastic beads shattered. She screamed and screamed, and then, clasping her hands around her face, leant back against the wall of St. Agnes', and cried bitterly.

Marie's heart suddenly began to beat faster, and she felt a surge of fear, of shame, that she had forsaken her faith. She jumped to her feet and ran home, leaving the broken rosary beads in the dust.

* * *

The following days were lonely and long for Clotilde. The Germans had almost finished their work – Landa himself told her. During the day – when she wasn't being subject to the Nazi soldiers' whims – she spent time in the library reading. She read a lot, but she didn't understand what motivated her during that time to read the Bible. She began to feel a sense of hope, hope for the future – the Germans would leave eventually.

It was Easter Sunday when the Germans left the Rousseaux's house. Clotilde stood with her arm around Marie, watching as they marched out, one by one. Clotilde's mouth flickered into a smile – finally they were being left alone, the death and destruction was over – at last they would have peace. Marie, however was seething with rage. She felt anger like she had never felt before, and a desire for revenge was beginning to consume her.

Landa was the last of them to leave. He looked at them, towering over Clotilde's petite form, and smiled.

"Au revoir, Mademoiselles."

He stepped out the door, and at once Clotilde breathed in deeply. _They're gone! They're finally gone! _She turned and pulled her sister into an embrace, and tears of happiness began to gush down her cheeks. Marie remained stoical and emotionless. She wasn't relieved – she was furious! It was then that she began to make a plan, a cold, calculated plan – at some stage, sometime, somewhere – she would kill Hans Landa.


End file.
